


I Choose You

by Caden_Parker



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Smut, One Shot, Suicidal Thoughts, Swan Queen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caden_Parker/pseuds/Caden_Parker
Summary: Regina has trouble coping with Emma’s engagement to Hook.





	I Choose You

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own ‘Once Upon A Time’, I just like to torture the characters.

You smile when she shows you the ring. It’s a small, cheap thing, just like the pirate, and you can’t stand the sight of it. But she’s looking at you with a nervous sort of smile, and her eyes are begging you to accept it, except _her_. So you hug her, tell her you’re happy for her, while a stake is driven in between your ribs, and you hate the fact your heart won’t stop beating.

“Thanks,” she says, “It means a lot.” Did you just imagine that quiver in her voice? She pulls back from the hug slowly, and it reminds you, absurdly, of that famous line in Jane Eyre:  _"_ _I have a strange feeling with regard to you, as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I'm afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I'd take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, you'd forget me.”_

 _I love you._ But the words don’t leave your mouth, can’t now, with her family and her _fiancée_ looking at you with furrowed brows and uncertain smiles. You excuse yourself, ignore her hand on your shoulder as you say goodbye. You need a goddamn drink.

 

______________________

 

Moderation means nothing when it comes to your emotions. It’s not one shot of Jack – it’s six, and then, blessedly, sleep. You wake up the next morning to find that she’s texted you three times:

_Hey, are you ok? You were acting strange yesterday._

_Regina?_

_Please talk to me._

You type back, **_I’m fine, Emma._** You can picture her green eyes narrowing at that, so you add a smile emoji just to be safe. But no, you are _not_ fine, you are the furthest thing from fine, and the taste of stale alcohol in your mouth is a testament to that. _Can’t have the woman I love worrying about me, now can I?_ The masochistic side of yourself snickers in reply. Where’s the damn Jack bottle?

 _Good. :-)_ _You had me worried._

 ** _I’m sorry._** And really, you are, because the idea of making Emma worry puts a sour twist in your stomach, while simultaneously making your heart leap. You never claimed to be uncomplicated.

 

______________________

 

For the next few days, it’s all excitement. Your presence is mandatory as Maid of Honor, but your son keeps looking between you and his birth mother with a quiet, knowing sadness, and you know he knows. You could almost bet he heard you sobbing last night. You sink lower into the couch as Snow and Emma sit huddled together, talking in an excited hush about wedding dresses.

And then: “What do you think, Regina?” Snow holds up a bridal magazine, beaming. Straightening, you lean forward to get a better view. You realize your step-daughter knows nothing of the woman sitting beside her. The dress is nothing short of a cotton-ball, not suiting to Emma at all.

“It’s repugnant.” You hear a snorted laugh escape your son, and your lips twitch upward, but only for a moment. Emma’s looking at you with hurt in her beautiful forest-green eyes. You sigh; soften your gaze and tone. “I’m sorry; I only meant that it doesn’t suit you.”

She nods in agreement.

“Oh,” Snow interjects indignantly, as if the refusal of the dress is a jeer at her, “I think it’s lovely!”

“Mom, I’ll look like a poodle,” Emma says straight-faced, and you can’t help the tiny laugh that bubbles in your throat. Emma smirks at you, and a light comes to her eyes that you haven’t seen in awhile. _That’s my girl._ But then you remember she isn’t, and you want another drink, and a cigarette.

 

______________________

 

“Mom, what’s wrong?” You tear your eyes away from the yard of apple trees. It’s raining. Pouring, actually, and you can feel thunder vibrate beneath your bare feet as you lean against your back door. Wind ripples your white blouse and black slacks; a shudder makes goosebumps appear on the skin left uncovered by your shirt.

“Nothing, Henry, why?” You meet concerned green eyes, identical to the ones you were previously thinking about. _“You have no **idea** what I’m capable of.” Yes, my beautiful swan, I did know. Right then, I knew you were capable of anything… including stealing my heart. _

“Because you have a cigarette in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other,” your son points out. “I’ve never seen you like this,” he comes and stands in front of you, puts a warm hand on your shoulder. He’s a little taller than you now, a young man of seventeen, but he’s still your boy, and both of you know it. “Is it Ma?”

You close your eyes. “Henry…”

“It is, isn’t it? Do you want me to cancel my weekend with Violet? I could stay here, with you.”

You smile sadly, open your eyes again. “No, my prince. Go, enjoy yourself. I’ll be alright.” You say that but don’t believe it.

“Mom,” he says softly, seeing the lie behind your eyes and drawing you into a hug, “I know. It’s all right.” Something inside you breaks, and you shake silently against his chest, crying with the rain.

 

______________________

 

You sit in the bridal shop waiting, hands picking imaginary lint off your black blazer. This is the fourth dress Emma’s tried on, and each time she’s reappeared from the dressing room, your heart beats a little faster. Luckily, the pirate isn’t here, having no interest in such feminine things. You’re thankful for the man’s horrid manners. What Emma sees in him you will never understand.

You forget how to breathe when you see her again. The dress is angelic white, simple, the only design a lace pattern on the arms, with gloved hands, so her fingers are bare.  Her blonde hair is lose down her back, in perfect waves. As she twirls to the claps and tearful gasps of her mother, you notice tiny pearl buttons up the back.  

“Regina?” She says your name softly, like she’s savoring the taste of it. Her eyes are shining and yours are brimming with tears you can’t stop.

“Emma…” you breathe, and something tugs at your heart, hard and quick, and you can tell she feels it, too.  “You look…”

“Gorgeous!” Snow chirps. “I think this is the one, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you say quietly, “It’s perfect.” Emma grins her beautiful grin and disappears to get changed. You can’t help but think of the skin underneath the silk.  

 

______________________

 

The taste of  alcohol on your breath begins to feel oddly comforting in the weeks that follow. You always search for a bottle after a fever dream of Emma, panting and writhing beneath you, begging. Every morning you try and shake your head free of the image. You shouldn’t think of her that way, not now.  You had six years to tell her how you felt, so why, now, the searing jealousy every time you think of _him_? Because, you answer yourself, the love for her has always been there, blooming like a rose beneath her hand, and she has always ignored the thorns.

You sigh and take another swig of scotch, remind yourself to shower and brush your teeth before Henry comes home.

 

______________________

 

“So, will you?” she asks again after the plates are cleared. She’d come over for a family meal with you and Henry, and it had _almost_ been normal, except for the fact that you kept going to the kitchen for a refill of red wine, like you were doing now.

But you keep your voice light as you answer, your back turned to her as you pour: “Teach you how to waltz? Emma, I’m flattered, but shouldn’t you ask your father?”

You turn around with the glass pressed to your lips, and she’s eying you with an arched brow and unreadable eyes. Her left hand is shoved in the pocket of her signature red leather jacket, her right reaches up to take the wine from your hand. “Easy, Your Majesty. I think you’ve had enough for tonight.” She says it in a way that feels like electricity leaving her mouth, bright and inviting and dangerously seductive.

 _No, not nearly enough_ , you think, rolling up the sleeves of your button-up in a quick, nervous way. You notice the veins in your arms are straining against your skin, and suddenly it is far too stifling in the kitchen. You think of the apple cider in your bedroom drawer.

“Dad would make too much of a deal about it,” she shrugs, looking for all the world younger than her thirty-five years. “And I… want it to be a surprise. For Killian.” And she’s giving you that look again, like she’s begging you to accept her, approve of her. So you swallow the knot in your throat, and say okay. “Really?” She’s smiling that gorgeous smile again, the one that reminds you of sunlight streaming through windows.

You nod. “Of course.” Because you’d do anything to see her smile, including breaking your own heart.

“Great!”

“What song?” you ask, walking now into the living room, “I’m sure I can find it.”

“Oh, um, ‘La Vie en Rose –’”

“Louis Armstrong,” we say in unison, and you can hide your smile because your back is turned to find the song on your IPod; you put it on repeat because it’s such a short song. And then the intro starts and you turn around, bowing slightly. “Well then, Miss Swan, may I have this dance?” The blush on her cheeks is adorable. _Soon, she’ll be Mrs. Jones, but for tonight… for tonight, she’s my swan._ She swats at your shoulder and fake-frowns, says “Reginaaa,” in a teasing way.

 _God, I love you, Emma Swan._ “Come here,” you laugh, pulling her to you. “Now, put your left hand on my shoulder. Good. The other is clasped with my right hand – excellent. Stand closer, Emma, I won’t bite,” you laugh again, the wine making your mouth slightly less unguarded. “We start on the left foot, forward, then we step to the side, back, and forward again. Good. And we move around the room, make sure not to stay in one place. The waltz has a three-step count, so as you move, count. One, two, three, one, two three… You’re a natural, Emma.”

_Hold me close and hold me fast,_

_the magic spell you cast…_

“Regina…” There’s a quiver to her voice as you move about, slowly finding a natural rhythm.

You swallow, but your voice comes out low and strained. “Yes, Emma?”

“Do you – do you think I’m doing the right thing?” There’s a look you perceive as uncertainty. Your eyes soften as you look at her.

“Does he make you happy?” The stake is back in your heart as you ask that.

_And when you speak angels sing from above…_

“He’s a good man.”

_Give your heart and soul to me…_

“That doesn’t answer my question, Emma.” Your hand is on her back, hot and clammy with nerves.

“He does,” she says, “It’s probably just… pre-wedding jitters.” The song restarts.

“Emma,” you whisper, “If he makes you happy, if you can see yourself in his arms every night… Marry him. If not, then…” _Then choose me, my beautiful girl._ She’s watching you, and your mouth is dry and you want a shot, and why the fuck did you agree to this, again?

"He deserves to be happy, and so do I. We can be happy together,” she says weakly.

You can’t help the way your back stiffens at that. You’ve stopped dancing. “Are you trying to convince yourself he’s your happy ending? Because darling, I promise you, you could do better.” _Now you’ve done it – there goes the relationship you’ve built for the last six years. Bravo, Regina._ She’s out of your arms, and you hate yourself more than you ever have.

“He loves me!” she says, as if that explains everything, as if saying it would make it real to her.

You run your hands angrily through your hair. “Emma, for God’s sake, listen to yourself! You can’t even tell me you love him! Look at me. Look me in the eye and tell me you love him.”

“Regina, please…”

“I married once, you know that. I didn’t do it for love, and it destroyed me, Emma.” You’re pacing now, hands balls at your sides. “I don’t want you to go through that, ever. I want you to be happy.”

“I will be,” she says, her soft, pleading voice is back, and she’s in front of you, hands on your shoulders. You want to kiss her stupid, infuriating, lovely, intoxicating mouth. You don’t. Instead you sigh and wrap her in a hug, protectively kiss the crown of her head and note that her hair smells like strawberries.“Don’t worry, Gina,” she mumbles into the crook of your neck.

“It’s a habit when it comes to you,” you say, hugging her tightly. 

“I know,” and there’s a warmth in her voice, “You’ll always be there for me.”

“Always,” you echo, and bite back the sob that tries to rip itself from your throat.

 

______________________

 

Life seems to slow after that, like water spilling from your hands, irretrievable. You try to fill your hands again, with Henry, with alcohol, with cigarettes, but nothing will stop the flow of energy steadily leaving you. She calls you two days after your “dance,” and you surprise yourself by how steady your voice sounds, even though your heart leaps at her voice. “Are you alright?” She asks, in that gentle voice that is seemingly just for you, “About what happened, I mean?”

 _You mean what **didn’t** happen?  _You want to ask, but instead: “Of course, darling. Don’t worry about me.” You’re getting dangerously good at lying. You wonder, in the space of silence, if she ever noticed the change from ‘Dear’ to ‘Darling.’ When had you started calling her that? After Neverland, wasn’t it?

“Regina?”

“Hmmm?”

There’s a pregnant pause, and you think that maybe – “It’s a habit when it comes to you.” _Click._

You spend the rest of the night torn between watery smiles and apple cider.

 

______________________

 

As the days pass, your alcohol supply dwindles. You magically refill the bottles. Your fingers are starting to have cigarette stains, and you actually manage a cruel showing of teeth at the hollow-eyed, sallow-cheeked woman staring back at you in the bathroom mirror. “What the hell are you looking at?” you hiss, and the mirror- woman’s mouth twitches upward. You shatter the glass with your fist.

 

"Just _talk_ to her, Mom," your son begs when he notices the wrapped dish towel around your knuckles later that day, “ _Please_!”

“Henry,” you say tiredly, “She’s made her choice.”

“Bullshit!” he yells, standing in front of your hunched form at the kitchen table, where an uneaten bowl of tomato soup still sits in front of you, “She never even knew she had one!”

You hear his angry footsteps on the stair, his bedroom door slam – you don’t see him for the rest of the night.

 

______________________

 

 

You make an effort for him after that, but you can feel tiredness seeping into your bones like an old friend – you suppose that’s exactly what it is.

So, you do what you feel the tugging to do, when he’s asleep in his room, blissfully unaware – write your goodbye. First, you write your will, get all the legal matters in hand, then, a letter to your son, and finally, a letter to the woman you love more than the painful beats of your heart.

 

**_My Dearest Emma,_ **

**_It turns out you were right: I am a selfish woman after all, my beautiful swan._ **

**_I couldn’t go on, knowing that you’re his, knowing that you’ll love him as you’ll never love me._ **

**_I’m in love with you, Emma… completely, utterly, hopelessly. I suppose I always have been, since you came to this Godforsaken town six years ago._ **

**_And now you know the one secret I refused to take with me to the grave._ **

**_I never expected to fall for you, baby, (I’ve longed to call you that, and I don’t care if it looks odd on paper), not with your blazing green eyes and uncouth tongue…_ _But love works in mysterious ways, as they say. You, my love, were the best surprise of my life._**

**_I know that you’ll blame yourself for my death. Don’t; just know I couldn’t fight the demons back this time._ _I want you to live for me, my darling. Live, and have the babies I wish we could have had together. Teach them to be just like you, my beautiful swan._ **

**_You were always my sun, moon, and stars._ **

**_I love you, Emma. I’m sorry._ **

**_~Regina_ **

 

**________________________ **

 

You manage to look presentable for her wedding. It all goes by in a blur, and your mind keeps returning to the envelope stuffed in your study drawer. _It’ll all be over soon…_  

You stand just a few feet from her, dressed in lavender, along with Ruby, whose expressive brown eyes are filled with tears. She keeps wiping at them with her index finger so as not to smudge her makeup.

“If anyone has a reason why these two should not be wed…” Archie says, and she’s looking at you over Hook’s shoulder. You see a shift in her eyes as yours finally glaze over, but you can’t say anything because _She’s made her choice. Bullshit! she never even knew she had one!_

“Do you, Killian Jones, take Emma Swan to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” he says.

Archie repeats the question to her. She’s not looking at you now, but tears are streaming down her face, and you just want to wipe them away. That isn’t your place, maybe it never was.

“I – I d–” And then you’re gone in a cloud of purple smoke.

 

______________________

 

You’re not sure how long you sit on your couch, staring at nothing, thinking of the envelope, your last bottle of wine, and a bottle of Benadryl. The wedding was at sunset, and now the sky is beginning to fade to black. You hear your phone buzz in your purse, you reach for it, figuring you owe whoever it was a final farewell. It was from Henry, and simply read:

 _SHE SAID NO._ Your heart beats wildly, and you’re just about to answer him, ask him what on earth is he saying, when you hear a knock at your door and – “Regina! _Regina_!”

“Emma,” you breath, and then – “Emma!” You trip over yourself to get to the door, and when you fling it open, all you see is a blur of white and lace before she’s in your arms, kissing you. Instantly, a blast of magic envelops you both, and you feel it singing in your blood, feel it course like fire through your soul. You kiss her deeply, wrapping your arms around her trembling frame, and she’s whimpering against your mouth, tugging at your hair. When the kiss ends, you’re both crying.

“Regina, what, what was that?” she asks, pressing your foreheads together.

You feel elated as you answer, softly, unbelievingly, “True Love’s Kiss.” And then her lips are on yours again, gentler this time, exploring your mouth with her tongue.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles when you pull apart, “I – I didn’t know, I –“

“Shhh, baby,” you whisper as you look at her, running your hand through her hair, “It’s all right now.” You hug her as she collapses against you, sobbing.

“I couldn’t – when I saw how you were looking at me… Oh God, I’m sorry!”

“Look at me, my darling,” and she does, so you take her face in your hands and wipe at the tears on her cheeks. “I love you, Emma.” And you kiss her gently, saying “I love you, I love you, I love you,” between each kiss, like saying it makes it even more real – and it does.

“I love you too.” Tears sting your eyes, and it’s her turn to wipe them away. “Regina, I am so in love with you, and I’m… I’m so sorry it took me this long to say it.” You kiss each other again, long and soft, and you can’t stop smiling. “Why didn’t you to tell me?” she whispers in wonder against your lips.

You pull back a bit, enough to look her in the eyes. “I just… Never thought I’d have this. I didn’t think that you…”

“You do,” she says, “You have this. _We_ have this, baby. I choose you, Regina.”

“Emma…” Her name breaks in your mouth, and it comes out like a sob. You take her hand, lead her into the house and shut the door. She’s sucking at your neck now, tasting it, reaching for the zipper of your bride maid’s dress.

“Regina,” her voice has a desperation in it you’ve never heard before, “Make love to me.” Your breath hitches in your throat; you moan, feel yourself clench around nothing. “Is that what you wanted?” she asks breathlessly, reading your body and smiling against your skin, sucking on your ear, “For me to tell you I want you inside me?”

“Yes,” you moan, losing yourself in her, mind blanking on the letter, the wine, the pills, because she’s _here_! ”Emma,” you whimper. She’s palming your breast through your dress, kissing your jaw.  

“I do,” she says with a watery voice, “I want you, Regina. Only you. Ever you.”

 When she says that, you pull away, smiling. “Then me you shall have, my beautiful swan.” And you pick her up, bridal style, and carry her up the stairs.

 

______________________

 

Your fingers shake when they come to the pearl buttons. It’s all slowness now, even though your heart is beating out of your chest in anticipation. But you finally undo the buttons; slide the dress to her shoulders, kiss the skin you’ve exposed. She tilts her head back, lets you trail your mouth lightly along her neck, murmur her name like it’s a prayer; you realize it is. She moans as you reach in front of her to palm her breasts, as you suck on her shoulder blade, memorizing the smell of her skin.

“Regina,” she whimpers.

“I know, my love. Trust me, I’ll take care of you.” You ease the dress down until it pools at her feet, gently help her step out of it, kiss the backs of her legs on your way back up, followed by your hands. The tip of your tongue licks at the entirety of her spine, and you press yourself against her again, rolling a nipple between your thumb and index and letting your free hand inch toward the only barrier left between you. “You are so beautiful, Emma.”

“I love you,” she breaths.

You turn to meet each other’s lips. “I love you,” you whisper, “So much, my beautiful girl.”

She turns in your arms, looping hers around your neck. “Are we dreaming?”

You smile, “Not this time, baby.” You take her hand and press it to your heart. “See? I’m right here.” _I’m here, and I almost wasn’t._ But you don’t tell her that, not now.

She smiles shyly, and goes for your zipper again. “I want to feel you.”

“Then feel me,” you murmur, “Feel what you do to me, Emma.” As soon as your breasts are exposed, she’s sucking, licking, and you, dear God, are arching your back into her wonderful mouth, moaning “Yes! Yes, Emma…” You feel like crying, you wonder deliriously if you already are.

You lead her to the bed when you kiss again, laying her down gently. Her hands are everywhere, stroking your back, your sides, and the whole time you’re whimpering, sucking on her tongue. “Regina, please…”

Your hand trails down, to the apex of her thighs. Your fingers stroke the skin beneath them. “Are you ready for me, my love?” you husk, “Are you sure?”

Her eyes are green fire. “Touch me,” she rasps. You press against the soaked cloth of her underwear. A moan escapes you both and ties itself together.

“Oh, Emma!” you cry, and then you’re actually crying, because her beautiful face is blurred, and you burry your face in the crook of her neck as you start to move your hand.

“Regina, baby – oh God – look at me, please?” You slowly raise your head. “I want to see you.” You nod and kiss her again, tasting the salt of your own tears. She wipes at them, frowns a little.

“Happy tears,” you say, taking her hand with your free one and kissing it, “You’ve made me so happy, my beautiful swan.” She smiles, and it falters into a look of pleasure as you press her clit again. 

“Fuck,” she moans, “I want you inside me, please Gina, I can’t – I can’t!” With a wave of your hand, her underwear is gone, and your fingers are nestled inside her. “Oh. My. God. Regina… fuck.” And she’s crying, kissing you and asking in a tearful voice “Why did we wait so long?”

You don’t have an answer, so you whisper “It doesn’t matter now, Emma. We’re together now, and I am _never_ letting you go." 

She kisses you, and you swallow the half sob, half moan she gives you, before starting to move your fingers. It’s a beautiful thing, watching her mouth open, her eyes widen, knowing that her body reacts so eagerly to your touch. “So beautiful,” you whisper, “Emma… My Emma.”

“Yours,” she pants, and without meaning to touch it so soon, your fingers find her sweet spot, and all traces of slowness evaporate. “Baby,” it’s a breathless, single word, and it makes your head spin. “Pleeeaassee.”

“Does that feel good, Em-ma?” you tease lowly in her ear.

Your response is a high-pitched “Mmm-hmm.”

You whimper pathetically, murmur “Oh, God,” and suck hungrily at her breast while her fingers tangle themselves in your hair.

"Regin–ah. Don’t stop, Jesus don’t you dare fucking stop!” she yells, and you couldn’t if you wanted to. You’re too far gone, the desire is making your soul come alive, and you _feel_ finally, after all this time.

“I love you,” you breathe against her mouth. “Emma, I love you.” And then she’s crashing on your fingers, you’re holding her, and you’re not sure which body is hers and which is yours. You both sob in each other’s arms, happy, content, and finally at peace.

 

“If I asked you to marry me,” you say later that night, with her head on your chest, “Would you?” 

A mischievous grin and twinkling sea—green eyes meet you as she raises her head. "Are you asking me, Regina Mills?" 

"Yes, Emma Swan, I'm asking you." You take a deep breath, "Will you marry me, my beautiful girl?"

That sunlight-through-windows smile is back. "Yes." And with that one word, your world is complete.  


End file.
